


Gas Station Boner Pills

by letbygones



Category: Promare (2019)
Genre: Attempted Consensual Sex Pollen, Coping, Hurt/Comfort, I can't believe I'm typing this but, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:21:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23339065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letbygones/pseuds/letbygones
Summary: Look. Gueira doesn't want to talk about it.If this is his dying day, and his dying moment includes being lovingly cradled in Meis' lap while having an existential crisis, then who cares if he's got a chemically induced erection?
Relationships: Gueira/Meis (Promare), Lio Fotia/Galo Thymos (mentioned)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 94





	Gas Station Boner Pills

**Author's Note:**

> c/w: heart issues, anxiety/depression, folk punk levels of pessimism

"100% genu-ine product," Meis reads off the holographic package, inflection long and low and sweeter than the Arizona tea in his cupholder.

He's holding their latest gas station purchase: a couple of pills, advertised as "all natural" and "long-lasting". There's two capsules nestled in cardboard and foil, and Gueira can't keep the shit-eating grin off his face. "Read the ingredients," he tells Meis, as he settles himself into the passenger's seat.

"L-Arginine... ginseng extract... hold up," he says, sputtering back a laugh. "'Horny goat weed'?"

"Horny. Goat. Weed," Gueira snickers, punctuating each word with a slap on the thigh. "I love it. I can't stop sayin' it. _Horny goat weed._ "

He slams the car door shut. It's hot inside. The seatbelt buckle stings his hand, but it's July, and he ain't gonna start complaining about the heat-- not now, not ever. He steals a sip of Arizona, and it's already warm.

They take a long time driving back to the place they don't call 'home'.

After they'd survived-- after the _Parnassus_ , the loss of their flames, the hours in court and in clinics-- they'd finally been humanized. The former Generals of righteousness and anarchy had spent months testifying against Kray Foresight, and to their surprise, something had actually come of it. On paper, they'd gained their freedom (and a little more than 500 hours community service, but hey, _semantics_ ). They'd been oh-so-tenderly thrown back into the colon of society, handed informational packets about _resources_ and _temp agencies_ , and sent on their merry goddamn way.

Trouble was, they weren't alone.

If it'd just been the two of them, they could carry all that weight. Gueira knew enough about EBT and food banks to get by, and Meis still had a few choice words for government-appointed case workers who _conveniently_ lost their paperwork. They'd danced the dance of poverty before-- years ago, a different lifetime, before their fire had ever burned the desert sky-- but even now, they were tougher than lava rocks, and smarter than most people gave them credit for.

If it'd just been the two of them, they could suffer alone, and be happier for it.

But a community of thousands, old and young and injured, all displaced from their families?

Gueira couldn't fix that. Not if he dedicated every waking hour of his life to the cause, like Boss was insistent on doing-- and the real nasty part of Gueira's mind, the cynical bastard, almost said _I told you so_ when Lio burnt out after two-and-a-half weeks of rebuilding efforts.

He'd been hospitalized for dehydration.

_Blackout, exeunt Fotia._

Their rental car pulls up to the Section-8 compound and parks in a spot by the stairwell.

"So, how do you wanna do this?" Meis asks, pocketing his keys. "We've got the place to ourselves 'til what, nine? Ten? I'm thinking food, then shower, then fuck."

Gueira grunts. "Shower after, we're gonna be all sweaty. Besides, it takes me three damn years to hose off."

"No way, if I'm munching ass, you're showering first."

"Then don't munch my ass," Gueira huffs, before popping the car door open and swinging himself sideways. "Cane me," he tells Meis.

The taller man smiles. "Kinky." He leans back behind Gueira's seat and extracts a metallic orange walking cane from atop a heap of fast food wrappers. It's only been roasting there for fifteen minutes, but it's already hot to the touch. Meis carefully maneuvers it around the passenger seat headrest and slides it to Gueira; the rental place gave them a two-door this time, which makes unloading things tricky.

Life has many ways of making Gueira feel guilty. Using up Burnish reparation funds for things he didn't need-- or rather, things other people needed _more than him_ \-- was something he never wanted to do. He never asked for money, or a place to live, or a prosthetic that cost more than a truck, but he's the face of a community being exploited for corporate brownie points. He'd received more than he deserved (out of the _goodness_ of bureaucratic hearts), and he's sick of it.

They all are.

But the Boss won't let him say no to the help, because it makes the lot of 'em look _grateful,_ and a grateful Burnish is a sponsored Burnish. Unsurprisingly, appearances mean more now than they ever have before. It's unfair, and Lio loathes it just as much as Gueira does, but they know the reality of their situation. Despite their newfound _liberty_ , they can't ride high and free anymore.

He chugs the rest of the Arizona, tosses the can in the backseat, and tells Meis to grab their stupid sex pills on the way inside.

***

They order in; Thai tonight.

Meis douses his glass noodles in sriracha and tucks his feet beneath him. "Says here that we've gotta drink at least sixteen ounces of water before taking these," he reads off his phone screen. "May cause dizziness and headaches."

"'Cuz all the blood's goin' straight to your dick," Gueira says through a mouthful of shrimp. "Kid workin' the counter at the gas station said this brand doesn't cause headaches, but IDK how much I'd trust a guy wearing Nike slip-ons. Real fratboy vibe, y'know?"

"Why were you looking at his feet?"

"He had 'em up on the counter."

"Gross," Meis says, leaning forward to take another bite of food. He tucks errant strands of hair behind his ears-- the Prometech engine singed most of its length, and he's still trying to grow it back out. Today, he has it in a low ponytail, but it's not quite long enough to stay put in the hair tie. Every time he takes a bite, another chunk of his cropped mane escapes.

Gueira thinks it's cute. 'Course, he's a real damn _optimist_ these days, always looking at silver linings n' all.

They sit on the carpet in comfortable silence while they finish their food. Their apartment's dark, even though the sky outside is bright and hot. They've got a single box fan running on high, propped up on one of the metal folding chairs from the dining table. It's not nearly enough to cool the room, but without A/C, it's better than nothing.

A powerful, burning eternity ago, they didn't need box fans, or darkness, or sweat. It'd been a sobering year of re-acclimating: to noticing fevers; to touching frying pans; to feeling the way their skin sticks together when they're breathless and naked and laughing.

It'd been bad, but it'd been good sometimes, too.

"Boss text you back yet?" Meis asks, his honeyed voice carrying over the white noise of the fan. Gueira hasn't taken his eyes off him since they got back.

"Haven't checked," he admits, before glancing down at his phone. "Oh. Yeah. He says the crew's planning a bar hop, but he'll dip before it gets too late."

"Guess we should get this show on the road, then," Meis says, swallowing the last of his food. "Don't want him interrupting us while we're in beast mode."

"Like he wouldn't see the sock on the doorknob," Gueira rolls his eyes. "I bet you a quarter he's gonna end up dicking down with Thymos again anyway."

Meis scoots closer to Gueira. Their thighs touch. "Tonight? Nah. They're responsible. They don't strike me as the types to get handsy while drunk. At least, not yet."

"They better not," Gueira bites, pushing his empty plate aside on the floor. He leans against Meis' shoulder. "I'll kill him dead if he fucks with Lio."

"He's already fucking Lio." 

"No, fucks _with_."

"Mmm. Gotcha."

Somehow, their hands find each other. Gueira stares blankly ahead into the dusty box they call an apartment. He feels the warm, dry pads of fingertips wrap around his knuckles, a thumb tracing the back of his hand with comforting pressure, and he lets out a long, shaky breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.

Meis brings Gueira's palm up to his mouth, and he breathes against his skin.

"You good, babe?"

Gueira closes his eyes. "I'm fine. Let's start fuckin' like bunnies already."

Meis kisses his hand, soft and barely-touching, and Gueira knows he's been caught lying again.

***

The thirty minutes before the pills kick in are amazing.

They're strewn across the floor like bunched-up laundry, formless and messy as they tangle together. Meis has Gueira pinned on his back, and he keeps doing this _thing_ with his _tongue_ against Gueira's ear, and it's driving him fuckin' _nuts_. Then he nibbles his way down his neck, his chest, his stomach-- already shirtless, already drenched in sweat-- and he stops there, breath hot against Gueira's waistband.

"Want me to wait?" Meis hums, burying his nose into the soft, southern end of Gueira's happy trail.

"Wait for what," Gueira asks, catching his breath.

"I don't know, whatever the pills are supposed to do," he shrugs, before planting a kiss on each of Gueira's exposed hipbones. "You feelin' anything yet?"

Gueira wriggles away when Meis tries to kiss him again, because it tickles like a mofo. "I mean, yeah, but there's a face in my crotch. Don't know how much credit goes to the pills when you're so insist--aaahhnt," he gasps, as Meis mouths him through the fabric of his boxers, all the way down his half-hard length.

Meis comes up for air with a flick of his head. "Isn't that the point? Sex you up real good as a control, so we have something to compare it to?"

Gueira laughs, and it's the first time in hours. 

Around Meis, that's entirely too long to go without laughing.

Something in Gueira's heart explodes when he thinks about it, so he decides not to think about anything. Instead, he wraps his thighs around his boyfriend's head and gives a gentle squeeze, just a joking reminder that he's here, he wants this; he's always wanted it, thoroughly enjoys seeing Meis _happy_ , but never got the guts to say it until they'd been strapped up, facing death in side-by-side containers--

And then something in Gueira's heart _explodes_. Again.

But, like, _really_.

"Oh my god," he gasps, pushing off Meis' face with all his strength.

Meis recoils in pain. "Fuck, what--"

"I think I'm dying."

"What?"

"I'm-- shit," Gueira grunts, throwing a hand over his chest, willing his pulse to slow. "My heart's racing, man, feel it--"

The look on Meis' face melts into concern. He places his hand over Gueira's and rotates it, feeling for the veins in his wrist, counting heartbeats through clammy skin.

A few seconds pass. Gueira tries to breathe.

"That's about 130 bpm," Meis decides, probably comparing it to a song he used to play when he had a band and all ten fingers. "Little high. Maybe we should stop."

"No _shit_ , we should stop," Gueira grunts. "Feels like there's fucking dynamite in my chest, how about you!"

Meis sits back on his heels, careful not to knock over the stack of dinner plates or dig his knee into Gueira's haphazardly thrown prosthetic liner. He grabs his pay-as-you-go cell phone off the floor and wastes no time in dialing a number.

For a moment, Gueira fears the worst-- an embarrassing situation with medical professionals, doctors declaring him dead with a full and lasting stiffy-- but when he hears Lio's voice instead of a 911 operator, he drops his head back in relief.

_"Hello?"_

"Boss," Meis rushes. "You with Thymos?"

_"Yeah. What's up."_

"Put him on," Meis urges, and Gueira's head springs back to attention. No. This isn't relieving at all.

Galo Thymos does _not_ need to know that Gueira's having a _heart attack_ from a _boner pill_.

But his fate's already sealed. There's a chatty, drunken _"hello?"_ on the other end, and Meis explains the situation in excruciating detail. He's at least decent enough to shoot Gueira a look that says _I'm sorry,_ but if Gueira lives through this, he's planning retaliation. Do ice cream trucks still sell fart bombs?

Do ice cream trucks still _exist?_

They'd spent too many years on the fringe of society, and now that they're back, it's broken and healing. Go figure.

_"Woah,"_ Thymos says, like he's just licked a toad. _"Those gas station pills are mega bad for you. They're, like, basically blood thinners, and they're DEFFO not FDA approved--"_

"We don't need a lecture, thanks," Meis cuts through. "We just need to know if this is normal."

And is this, Gueira thinks? Is this normal? Is laying half-naked on the floor and gasping for air normal? Is having a third-story _rat trap_ apartment in government-assigned housing _normal?_

Is being stuck here in the shell of a former city, without agency, without any sort of _excitement_ in their lives except clearing rubble and updating body counts and taking _herbal fucking sex supplements_ to feel horny and stupid and _alive again_ \--

Is that it?

Is that life, now?

Galo says something on the other end of the line that Gueira can't hear.

Meis answers "Yeah, I've got a headache coming on."

Gueira starts to laugh again, harder this time, because the dumb kid working the counter inside the gas station told him this wouldn't happen. The packaging said "headache free!". Meis looks at him like he's finally cracked, finally lost the only marble he's ever had, and maybe he has.

Isn't it rich.

"Okay. Yeah. We'll try that. Thanks," Meis says, before hanging up and dropping the phone. He crawls toward Gueira's head, which is utterly _throbbing_ in pain now, but he's gentle as he scoops it up into his lap.

Gueira closes his eyes.

"Gimme your neck," Meis mutters.

"No more necking," Gueira whines weakly. "And I can feel your dick against my skull, dude."

"Big words coming from someone with a crowbar in his pants."

Look. Gueira doesn't want to talk about it. 

If this is his dying day, and his dying moment includes being lovingly cradled in Meis' lap while having an existential crisis, then who cares if he's got a chemically induced erection?

"Shut up," is all he says, before Meis finds his carotid artery and carefully begins to massage it.

They sit, breathing in recycled air from the box fan, listening to Gueira's chest rise and fall, slower and slower. Meis smells like peanut sauce and Pall Malls, and Gueira lets himself drift. Maybe this _is_ life, now. Maybe the only good he's got left is the warmth on his neck and the two boys he lives with, who are just as angry and intolerant as he is.

Maybe he's fine with that, most of the time. He could man up and stop whining.

He should.

He has to.

Meis leans forward, chin-length hair cascading around him in a curtain. It's different now, but it moves like it always has. Like it probably always will.

"You're okay," he tells Gueira, soft and low. "You'll get through this."

And whether he means the sex pills or the next ten years of their life, Gueira nods, because he wants to believe he's right.

He should.

He has to.

**Author's Note:**

> I used to work in a sex shop. Our store was a corporate chain, and they really pushed us to sell these (and many other dubious products that imo shouldn't have a place in sexual environments). Look yall. Heart palpitation city. Just don't try them. Listen to Galo.
> 
> And no, Gueira didn't _really_ have a heart attack, he's just... having a hard time... with everything...
> 
> I'm quasi-existent on twitter now, if you're 18+ (and you should be if you're reading this)! @gladburnish


End file.
